Schadenfreude
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: In a fractured dimension, no one will remember what you do. As long as you aren't caught, you can get away with anything before you kill the catalyst. Given free and unobserved reign, Julius massacres villages… and Rideaux prefers to focus on torturing specific individuals in a specific way. M for dark/suggestive themes. (Extended explanation within.) I do not own Tales of Xillia.


**_Author's Note: _**_This is my third M-rated story in a row. The ratings of the other two were a product of a series of coincidences and I probably could have gotten away with T, but let me tell you, this one belongs firmly in M. I very nearly didn't publish this one at all._

_On a related note, be forewarned that this story contains rape; as my regular readers probably know, I never go into explicit detail, but the concept is of course still disturbing. (I have no idea why I was even compelled to write this, especially given that I don't condone this behavior *at all*.)_

_Anyway, I apologize in advance and beg any first-time readers to please not judge all my work on this piece, as this is by no means representative of my ordinary style and content. In fact, it's positively atypical._

* * *

><p>Film Noir's fractured drinks are just as good as the prime ones.<p>

Perhaps they're even better, muses Rideaux. Because here, he doesn't have to worry about the consequences; he could get drunk as you please and dance on the bar if he wants, since dead men tell no tales. Anything goes in a fractured dimension, as long as he doesn't get caught—and the ability to do whatever he wants is without doubt the most liberating, exhilarating experience in existence. Here, Rideaux is _free_.

And that's why he always has to push himself to destroy these divergent worlds. Not out of any sense of mercy or compassion, oh no. Rideaux knows very well it's him or them, and better them than him. Far better. But sometimes, he'll sit and drink at Film Noir quite as though it's his own version, just like he's doing now.

What mischief awaits him in the downtime before he finds the catalyst? Rideaux glances around the room, taking in the sights thoughtfully. There's a lonely man in the corner, perhaps a couple years younger than him, staring dejectedly into a glass. Drowning his sorrows, guesses Rideaux, and a smile plays on his lips as he contemplates the ways in which he could cheer him up.

After all, he's one of the depressed ones; Rideaux has, over time, cultivated a deep and abiding love for others' misfortune, so long as it doesn't touch _him_. The unlucky are the ones desperate to prove their worth in the world… so they're the ones who say yes. Not that their consent matters much, in the grand scheme of things. Rideaux takes another sip, keeping his eyes on the young man's tense back; spirits, he loves that phrase. 'Scheme' just captures so perfectly the underhanded nature of the universe—

The call-girl sitting on the bar in front of him pouts about whether she's good enough for him, evidently having traced his wandering gaze, and tugs insistently at his kerchief with slender gloved fingers. Rideaux's eyes slide half-willingly up to hers, lingering appreciatively on the shortness of her black-fringed skirt before making their way past bloodred lips to dark and demanding eyes.

Rideaux reaches a hand up to brush her cheek smirkingly, and her moue shifts seamlessly into a seductive smile. _Whore_. He shakes his head slightly, getting to his feet, his fingers curving down to her chin as he contemplates in which way he should teach her a lesson in humility. She leans in as if for a kiss, closing her eyes, supremely confident in her attractiveness. She's not altogether wrong.

Rideaux only raises his hand and gives her a backhanded slap. To use all his force would undoubtedly break her jaw, and far be it from him to muss a pretty face without cause—even if it'll disappear soon anyway, along with the rest of her and everyone else. She raises her hand to her face, eyes flying wide open in shock and watering in pain, but she does not move away.

"Of _course _you're not good enough for me," whispers Rideaux, bringing his face nearer to hers and relishing the fear in her midnight eyes as he drags his gloved fingers through auburn locks. "You're a prostitute, after all. And not a very good one, at that," he continues, running his fingertips over her silvery necklace and staring into her averted eyes. "I haven't even paid you yet, and here you are, jumping the gun just because you like me."

She mutters something that might be an apology, blushing furiously, but Rideaux's eyes focus on the door as another young woman walks through, arrival heralded by restless shadows. The divergence catalyst, realizes Rideaux, smiling, and sits down again as the woman before him slides off the bar and sashays away, slighted.

The catalyst, meanwhile, is quite fetching—skinny and flat-chested as the whore, though much less extravagantly dressed. Positively modest in more ways than merely her attire, too, as she stammers her order to the barkeep, playing shyly with her fingers as she sits a few seats away. Not lonely, decides Rideaux, looking her up and down. Nervous about something.

Her imminent death at his hands, maybe?

The catalyst glances over at him and catches his eye briefly, though looks quickly away again out of diffidence. Their contact established, Rideaux moves a few stools over to sit next to her, though does not look at her again until the barkeep returns with her drink of choice—a small, sunset-colored beverage. Fitting for the dusk of this world.

"I'll pay," volunteers Rideaux, glancing at the girl, who flushes as he slides the gald forward; the barkeep dips his head in acknowledgment. If this woman is the divergence catalyst of this dimension, thinks Rideaux, her prime self must be an absolute tigress. Fortunately, that means this fractured version won't put up much of a fight when the time comes to kill her—or, for that matter, anytime before that.

Drinking with a divergence catalyst is hardly a new occurrence for him. Rideaux has had a drink or five with himself, once, and still remembers vividly how the life had faded from his own golden eyes. It was funny, really; the living Rideaux had laughed, at least after he'd finished puking. He'd never anticipated, naïve though it may seem, that he would ever have to kill a version of himself in the course of his duties.

Nor is it unusual for more carnal thoughts and considerations to cross his mind, as they are now, though he is careful to keep his lecherous glances discreet. There is no need to frighten her before it's time, after all; a lamb's meat tastes better if it's comforted before the slaughter. Or, in cases such as these, intoxicated—though never drugged. Rideaux likes a challenge too much to further weaken his adversarial… lovers, shall we say.

The combination of these two circumstances is unprecedented, but perfect.

Hours melt away like the ice in her drinks, all paid for by Rideaux, who fully intends to get his money's worth tonight. As the catalyst gets tipsier, her meekness ebbs away and she opens up to him; Rideaux notes her every word and motion. There are no hints of weapons on her person, nor—when he startles her on purpose by spilling his water—any reactions that would indicate battle-honed reflexes.

In other words, the catalyst is his for the taking, in more senses than the one required.

When the clock chimes midnight, she jumps to her feet, blue eyes unfocused—_spirits_, Rideaux hates the color blue; it reminds him of the boss's son—and, swaying dangerously, slurs something about how she meant to have gone home hours ago: she has work tomorrow… or so she thinks. The assumption that there will be a tomorrow is a dangerous one in her case.

Rideaux indulges her with a smile, which the catalyst tentatively returns. "A lady shouldn't walk home on her own," he says, bowing slightly before straightening up and offering his arm. "Especially not in a place like this." A spark of wariness makes its way into those cloudy eyes, and he can almost hear her thoughts as she evaluates whether or not he is trustworthy—but, either unable to find anything amiss or judging that she needs physical support regardless of the truth behind his chivalry, she eventually accepts his arm.

Their largely silent walk through the twisting alleyways lasts only a few minutes before they arrive at the most isolated place in Duval. Only a few sleepy vagabonds live in this area, and what few businesses there are have been closed for hours; Rideaux knows the area perhaps a little too well, remnants of his last several conquests. He supposes idly that no decent man should find anything enticing in the prospects of overpowering someone so utterly.

But then, no decent man would have gotten into the world-destroying business.

Rideaux slams the catalyst against the brick wall once they reach the telltale streetlamp, and he can hear the breath rush out of her fragile little body with a satisfying hiss. He holds her there by the wrist, reaching inside his jacket's inside pocket to pull out one of his knives in a by now familiar set of motions.

He never feels that it's appropriate to use more force than necessary to subdue anyone; after their initial resistance, when Rideaux explains coolly that he wants only one thing from them and that thing is not their life (though in this case he'll be a liar in that respect), they tend to give him enough time to concentrate on more important things than ensuring they don't fight back.

"Wh-wha—" The catalyst's voice is trembling. "Wh-what are you doing?" she finally asks, swallowing hard, eyes wide. They're not blue anymore, in the darkness. Rideaux moves the hand clutching the knife so that his thumb brushes her lips in a warning for her to be quiet: she tenses as the point comes in the barest contact with her chest, and in the quietness of the night he can hear her heart beat faster in dread.

He smiles distantly at her quick shallow breaths. Rideaux is not a sadist, truly he's not—at least, not when all his blood is in his brain. An answer, he thinks as he traces the blade carefully down the front of her outfit, is not necessary. She _knows_ what he wants. Isn't it obvious, as the threads of her clothing part and expose soft and vulnerable flesh?

"I'll scream," promises the catalyst, voice tremulous with fear, eyes glimmering desperately.

Rideaux rolls his eyes. "I'll be long gone before anyone comes to your rescue, and it's hard to save a dead woman," he sighs, continuing his methodical way down her slender body. "Either I'm going to fuck you, or this knife will," he adds, poking her gently below in preparation to drive the blade in: her breath catches in fright. "Now, which is it going to be?"

There are tears in the catalyst's eyes, now, a pleading expression, and Rideaux gives a single chuckle as the silence continues. She won't break it now, he realizes; rather than worry, he occupies himself with ensuring her clothes are torn fully away. He then trails the knife back to its most threatening of positions, twisting it playfully—barely touching her, and certainly not hurting her—until she gives her shuddering response.

"You," breathes the catalyst, barely audible, and closes her eyes in defeated horror. "But make it quick," she adds urgently, voice breaking into something like a sob as Rideaux removes the knife slowly from its position. "Please."

Rideaux smiles, sheathing the weapon. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he murmurs, fumbling momentarily with his belt. "I'll be gone soon," he adds, loosening his waistband. "In fact, you won't even remember this," finishes Rideaux smirkingly, taking her hand roughly and pulling her to the ground, kneeling over her fluidly.

He has no need to pin her down or whisper further threats to keep the catalyst in line; she's already limp with shock, her eyes squeezed shut—and so he turns his mind unconcernedly to the beauty of her pain, and his body follows its lead.

* * *

><p>"Rideaux."<p>

It's over now, his belt re-buckled, the catalyst and dimension both destroyed with a swift and merciful stab through the heart, the only part of her he could not touch. Rideaux finds himself on his hands and knees, still breathing hard in twisted euphoria—and glances up to find Julius with arms crossed, staring him down from some distance away.

"Again?" is the only other word he utters, heavy with disapproval, and Rideaux sits back on his haunches and laughs. It's not the first time he and Julius have been assigned to the same mission, but they always make a point of splitting up and working separately, particularly in the instances when the Department has no idea what the catalyst is. Such as tonight.

And thus, it's not the first time Julius has been made aware of this… tendency.

"I suppose _you_ would have advocated razing Duval," says Rideaux pointedly once he catches his breath, getting to his feet and dusting himself off, and Julius's expression hardens. "Your methods inflict pain on everyone caught in the crossfire. My methods inflict pain on a single person. But then, neither lasts very long." He meets those infernally blue eyes with an even challenge.

Julius shakes his head slowly, closing his eyes. "I am _not_ going to get into this with you," he growls, turning his back. "If you don't understand why what you do is wrong, I'm not about to explain it to you."

Rideaux laughs; Julius glances briefly over his shoulder, annoyed. "And which of the two of us has killed more innocent people?" prompts Rideaux, brushing past him and taking the lead on their way to the train station: Julius's footsteps follow with clear reluctance. "I let them live and leave them alone, once I'm done with them."

"Much good it does them," retorts Julius, barbs in every word. "I'm sure they wish otherwise."

Rideaux raises his eyebrows, though he knows Julius cannot see. "And they get that wish as soon as the catalyst is destroyed." When his adversary has nothing more to say to this, he continues triumphantly, "Besides, I would never do anything like this in _our_ dimension. Just imagine what it would do to my reputation."

"It's not like I go around massacring villages in the prime dimension either, Rideaux," snaps Julius. "And I'm at least _aware_ that what I do isn't justified, unlike you. You're completely out of touch with the concept of morality, whether you're in a fractured dimension or not."

Amused, Rideaux turns back briefly to observe his furious expression. "Oh, the son of our boss wants to talk about _morals_," he shoots back with a mocking smile. "Remind me again what line of work you could have left, but didn't. Doesn't it have something to do with destroying alternative realities?"

"Shut _up_," retorts Julius through grit teeth, fists clenched; Rideaux, smirking, decides for once to humor him and keep his silence. He'd rather focus on his fast-fading ecstasy and the lingering memory of dominance (at last!) than yet another argument with the Bakur boy, after all.

And as they walk to the station in sullen silence, Rideaux finds himself wondering suddenly, as if waking from a dream, whether there's something deeply wrong with him, something a medical aspyrixis cannot fix—but smiles slightly once he convinces himself that he's perfectly fine, and all is right with his world.


End file.
